“Ah. Just the man I was hoping to see.” Adechike untangled from Michiko to stride forward, arms already parted for an embrace. “Your timing is impeccable, my friend. Our cargo shipments just arrived, and imagine my surprise when I was told that they’d found a cache of—”
Takeshi unsheathed his blade with a single fluid motion and carved the Dying Silence into the air before anyone could react. The space around Adechike imploded into shards. Filaments of violet, each no wider than a hair, circled his throat. The Ikaro warder twitched his sword down, and Adechike stumbled forward, choking, dragged down by that web of light.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Michiko snarled, drawing her blade.
The Ikaro warder ignored her. His voice shook as he spoke, his manner stilted from emotion. “Adechike, I pray that you understand that I take no pleasure in this or what I’m about to say. Your friendship was deeply valued. But beginning today I must ask that you keep your distance from the Ikaran embassy. Whatever agreements were made by our predecessors shall continue to be honored. However, I am hereby nulling any arrangements we have personally made. While I treasured our interactions, I simply cannot expose Ikaro to a fox-throated traitor any longer.”
Silence swallowed the square. Adechike blanched at the accusation, mouth gaping, eyes going wide, while Takeshi’s face remained impassive.
“I apologize that it has come to this. But I will not risk the safety of Ikaro for the friendship of someone so untrustworthy. Understand that Ikaro will continue to uphold its promises to Quloo, but for both of our sakes, I suggest you keep your distance.”
He slit the sigil apart with a jerk of his wrist, sheathed his blade, jaw and posture tensed. Adechike sprawled across the cobblestones, shuddering, air swallowed in gulps.
“I will not go easy again.”
Above, a shadow pulled itself across the skies, unnoticed in the echo. And swallowed by the gloom, unheard by anyone save for the owner of an unpopular bar, a figure sighed and said:
“Damn it.”
Chapter 2
Kris
“Adechike.” Kris rapped their knuckles against his door. Guiltily, at first. But the awkwardness receded as the silence lengthened, the noise of the knocking cushioned by the inch-deep carpeting.
They struck the door again, this time with a fist. “Adechike.”
Still no answer.
Kris swore under their breath in every language they could remember, the bridge of their nose pinched between two fingers. It hadn’t been a good day. This week had been a catastrophe, a nightmare of unexpected circumstances. First, it was Anton and his endless questions, his insistence that Kris accompany him on ill-advised quests for low-cost physicians. So much wasted time. Then it was the trade deal.
Kris had expected, even hoped, that the trade deal would propel Rumika into a seat of authority, that the alacrity with which Kris had facilitated the arrangement would be seen as representative of his nation’s resourcefulness. This would have been their moment.
“Adechike!”
The quiet held.
“You know what? Forget it. I hope you’ve got clothes on, Adechike, because I am coming in!” Not for the first time, Kris found themself grateful for Alyx’s boundless paranoia. They’d insisted, among other things, that Kris learn how to properly kick down doors: aim at the side of the lock with the heel of your foot, be exacting with the pressure applied. No theatrics. Nothing fancy. It had to be precise.
The door swung open after the first blow, only minimally damaged. Alyx, as always, had provided excellent advice. Through the gap, Kris caught their first glimpse of Adechike’s room. Canvases hung from the ceiling by silver strings, spinning lazily in place. The images contained within were otherworldly. The skies in palettes that could never exist in nature. Faceless bodies suspended mid-combat, their muscles described by minimal brushstrokes. And more nebulous splendors, vivid abstractions rendered in gilt and colored wax, batik corporealization of ideas half formed.
Were those Adechike’s creations? Kris wondered as they slunk into the room, marveling at its neatness. The furnishings were sumptuous, more lavish than Kris would have expected of Adechike. The bed, in particular, was a study in excess. Kris couldn’t conceive a reason to have so many pillows, so many extraneous layers of glimmering fabric. Something he’d inherited from Ojo, maybe? Or another warder.
Who knew? It occurred to Kris then that they had no inkling as to who Adechike really was, no idea as to what he enjoyed outside of hibiscus wines and long evenings in the teahouse, asking question after question, as though answers powered the engine of his heart. When was the first time Adechike had argued with his parents? Where did his religious beliefs lean? Did he dream of becoming a warder because he was dazzled by the romance of it, or was he looking to martyr himself in the name of Quloo?
Everything Kris knew about Adechike felt like it’d been curated, picked through by a careful hand, all the parts coming together to craft a public persona that was universally likeable. Even Adechike’s flaws were endearing. They made him human. Gave the world a reason to bond with him, to develop rapport.
A cold frisson rolled down Kris’s spine to pool in their belly. Nausea followed after. Suddenly they felt stupid, hopelessly naive. Why hadn’t they realized this before? Why hadn’t it occurred to them that Adechike’s warmth, his puppyish enthusiasm for everything, could have been an act?
Because Kris had wanted—no, needed—him to be a friend.
They swallowed the thought, bile-bitter against their tongue. Kris prowled through Adechike’s room, carefully pulling out drawers and rifling through the folders neatly stacked across every horizontal surface. Their heart plunged as they discovered handwritten dossiers: observations about the warders, about their juniors, about Twaa-Fei.
About Kris.
•••
“Warder Kante, I do hope you’ll forgive me for barging into your chambers so late at night, but I found these documents in Adechike’s chambers, and—”
“Did you have permission to enter?”
Kris halted, a palm flat across the papers cradled in an arm. Ojo’s voice held a quality that they’d never heard before. A flatness like a fillet of old turkey breast: stringy, serviceable, and bereft of any personality. It wasn’t Ojo’s voice, wasn’t the rich bass that rang with a thousand nuances, expressive as any stage performer’s.
Ojo took his time in rising from his chair. He shut his ledger first, smoothing a wine-dark ribbon into place, before he set the book aside. Then he rose, every inch the politician surprised in his own home. His expression was courteous but cold, his eyes placid. Under the lens of his regard, Kris felt uncomfortably like an intruder.
They drew a step back. The shadows were syrupy and velvet, absolute save for the dim corona of light wrapped around Ojo’s seat. The warder had been working by the flame of a single candle. Briefly, Kris caught themself wondering what had demanded so much careful attention that Ojo couldn’t wait for the day to return or tolerate more luminance in the space.
“Did Adechike give you permission to enter?” There it was. The kindness that Kris remembered, only tempered, tamped down. Clinical.
Kris swallowed. “N-no. He didn’t. He—”
“You broke into his quarters, then.” Ojo paced forward, hands behind his back. The emphasis was subtle but clear, a gleam of light along the guillotine’s curve. Ojo’s meaning might as well have been written in block letters above his head. “I hope you had good reason.”
“The shipment.”
Ojo’s voice was cold, absent of any interest in Kris. “What about the shipment?”
“You”—the words tangled—“you—”
“And what about Adechike? What has Adechike done to warrant this gross violation of his private space?” Ojo strode up to Kris, stopped a palm’s breadth from contact. It was an insult. A challenge. It had to be. Before, Ojo had been nothing but conscientious, careful to observe correct behavior in the presence of t
he various nations. He knew every honorific, every genuflection, every do and don’t-do archived in history. To have Ojo violate Kris’s personal space like this, with full knowledge of what it meant, it had to be intentional.
The Rumikan warder curled their fingers around the hilt of their blade, conscious at last of the possibility that Ojo, despite his reassurances, might have never been fighting at full capacity, that Kris had never seen Ojo pushed.
They drew a shuddering breath. They could smell sandalwood and frangipani. Floral scents, heady and suffocating, overlaid the odor of bone-ink and polished metal. “I have reason to believe that Adechike may have betrayed Rumika’s trust.”
“Oh?” Almost casually, Ojo unsheathed his blade and held the weapon atop his palms, hands tipped this way and that, the light sluicing over the runes embossed upon the steel. Kris had always admired the weapon, always envied Quloo and the artistry of their smiths. Every nation, of course, knew how to craft weapons. But it was Quloo who’d hollowed their soil of aerstone, who made the most beautiful swords of all. “How is that?”
Kris stiffened. “That is private information.”
“Well, you have my apologies, Warder,” he said, the title uncurling like an epitaph. “I am concerned to learn that you feel this way about a member of the Quloi ambassadorial staff. If you locate any evidence to support your case, I invite you to return—”
“Ojo, why are you doing this? You know I’d never say anything like this about Adechike unless—”
“—to the embassy and provide said evidence,” Ojo continued, relentless. “Until then, I am forced to ask that you leave the premises. Were it not for the fact that Rumika and Quloo enjoy such a strong relationship, I’d have requested your arrest. You trespassed. You also stole vital documents from a representative—”
“Ojo, please. You know I intended no harm—”
“—of my nation. Under any other circumstances, Warder Dente, there would be dire consequences. But again, I value the relationship between our nations. Now”—his voice dipped into a rumble—“leave.”
“No.” Kris slid a step backward, blade freed, the tip held to Ojo’s throat. “You’re going to listen to me. You’re— I challenge you to a duel. Right here. Right now. For the right to let myself be heard.”
“Really?” Ojo slitted his dark eyes, a smile crooked at the younger man. “I accept.”
There was no contest. Kris was faster than Ojo, more athletic, but Ojo had the advantage of familiarity. He knew the space, its dimensions. How far his blades could stretch, where they’d tangle in the curtains, where the furniture might serve as a barrier, where they functioned as obstacles, how the architecture might impede his opponent for a gasp of a second. Kris possessed nothing of that. Each sigil that they fired, every one sloppier than the last, muddied by emotion, was countered, over and over, parried by Ojo’s blades.
In desperation, they chiseled Spider’s Grip into the air, and ran up along a wall, spinning in time to catch Ojo’s swords along his own weapon.
“It’s over,” Ojo murmured.
Too late, Kris recalled the versatility of Ojo’s preferred style, the real use of the smaller blade. They could only watch as the Quloo warder carved the sigil for Return to Earth, could only let out a shout as gravity punched a hook through their belly and pulled them down into the carpet. Impact brought an explosion of stars, a ringing in their right ear, and the world pendulumed in Kris’s vision, its edges greased with violet.
Ojo crouched down beside Kris, even as the doors to the office opened and attendants in neat uniforms filed into a semicircle around the prone Rumikan. Expressionless, Ojo plucked the sword from Kris’s nerveless grip and passed it to an aide, who held it with the reverence of a man who’d watched a god die.
“This doesn’t make me happy, you know,” Ojo said.
Kris did not reply.
“None of this. I’d have much preferred that we’d kept to what we know, to the rituals and the routines we’ve come to enjoy as a community in Twaa-Fei. But unfortunately . . .” His voice ebbed. Kris’s view gyred as they were lifted to their feet, propped up by two men who said nothing, their manner surgical. No undue cruelty, no unwarranted compassion. Their duty was to migrate Kris from embassy to exterior.
“This is war, my friend.”
Chapter 3
Michiko
Though not even torture could wring the confession from her soul, Michiko had always believed that the Kakute embassy was superior to all others. Unlike the other consulates, it possessed innumerable gardens, small ponds that housed catfish and little emerald frogs, places that could be used for private meditation and communion with one’s ancestors. There was even a small flock of imperial swan-cats, bronze-bodied and sleek. Even the offices themselves were spacious, built of polished wood, carrying the faint smell of incense.
Today, however, it all felt claustrophobic.
Michiko ringed her throat with a hand. “You’re— You— What?”
“I’m”—Kensuke looked out the window, mouth pursed, his long frame tiger-striped by the morning’s light—“nothing, actually. As of several minutes ago, I am merely another civilian, nameless and unimportant in the colonies.”
“How? I— Did Lavinia relieve you of your duties?”
“No.” The barest smile curved his mouth.
“Were there orders? What—what happened? I don’t understand. I—”
“I am stepping down. It is as simple as that.”
Michiko barked a rough laugh. Somehow, the room seemed to be shrinking. “You can’t.”
“I can.”
“This is wrong.”
“This is exactly right.”
“There are procedures. There’s a process. We—we have to tell Twaa-Fei authorities. Contact Kakute. This needs to be approved by at least seven of Mertika’s senior officials. Not to mention the fact that we’re supposed to—”
“Those are guidelines.” Kensuke shucked his formal coat, undid the belts that attested his office, removed the badges, the hair ornaments he’d worn since his appointment as warder. The sword followed next. The ceremonial shinai. Everything that embodied the station of warder. He laid them across the desk with a ritualistic precision, before looking up at Michiko. “Those are not the rules.”
“I can’t be warder.” Michiko dropped her hand. “I’m not ready to be warder. There is no way. I can’t. I’m not— I’m not ready for this.”
For a heartbeat, Kensuke’s gaze gentled. “I really wish this could be different.”
“Why are you doing this? Are you under orders from Lavinia? Warder—”
“That isn’t my title anymore.” Nonetheless, Kensuke stroked his hand across the coat he’d worn for years, fingers walking the brocade like the road to a childhood home. His expression reflected a similar sentiment. It held a wistfulness, an inward-facing melancholy, a sense that wherever Kensuke was looking, it wasn’t at the present. He sighed. “You’re the warder now, Michiko.”
“I can’t be the warder.” The words felt leaden, stupid.
The older man shrugged, a loose clatter of his shoulders. “You are now.”
“Kensuke.” Michiko gnawed down on her pride. “Please. I need—”
Her hands spasmed, fingers curving around the truths that Kensuke wouldn’t yield. Anything, she thought desperately, and wondered if it’d make a difference if she paid him with the humiliation of such a revelation. Decorum didn’t endear a person to another. Adechike had taught her that.
Michiko flicked her gaze up to Kensuke’s face, his visage blank, bereft of anything that approached sympathy. For all of its grief, none of it was for her. She swallowed and scissored her shoulders back, righting her posture. “For Kakute’s sake, I’ll do what I must.”
More platitudes, more nonsense words, more sounds that meant nothing at all. Outside, distantly audible, the clack of wheels and hoofbeats, the murmur of Twaa-Fei stirring. A Vanian call to prayer in a gorgeous alto. Children’s la
ughter, shrill and careless. Life continued its orbit. Michiko couldn’t help but resent the world for its indifference.
“I’m sure you will.” Kensuke undid his topknot and allowed his hair to free-fall along his back, a sheet of oiled darkness, the patterns shaved into his skull now hidden. Bereft of his accoutrements, dressed down in taupe and fawn, he seemed smaller, somehow. Diminished.
“Michiko—”
A stutter of noises, stillborn words.
“Yes?”
Kensuke inhaled. “For whatever it is worth, understand that this isn’t personal. This has nothing to do with Mertika, either.” A beat. “Not directly, at least. As for the answers you want, well, the office is yours now, Michiko. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Chapter 4
Anton
Nothing was going as Anton had planned.
Not his life. Not his travel plans. Not his business. Not his relationship with Cassia. Especially not his relationship with Cassia.
Anton stared at the doors of the Vanian embassy, his stomach writhing with an unfamiliar emotion.
Anxiety, he thought.
Or possibly, an excess of spice. Anton spent half a heartbeat weighing the two possibilities before nodding to himself. Definitely an excess of spice. He wasn’t worried. Fear was for Mertikans, for Quloi, for Vanians and their labyrinth of rules, those stupid rules, legislating an existence that should be spent on joy instead of endless exercise and boring, boring combat drills.
Herrok were never afraid.
“Anton?”
In answer to the invocation of his name, Anton leaped three inches backward, hand slapping against the scabbard of his rapier. “En garde!”
Harjo let out a low, exasperated sigh. “Have you been licking barnacles again, Anton?”
The Complete Season 1 Page 22